


Ritual in Red

by Dragonpie



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Big Dick John Wick, Casual Sex, F/M, Oral Sex, Present Tense, Second Person, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, established sexual arrangement, hidden backstory, immersive fic, mentions of cannon typical violence, no actual explicit violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26064217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonpie/pseuds/Dragonpie
Summary: "It’s almost sacrificial, you think.A woman in red, sat demurely on a penthouse bed. Locked doors. Armed guardship keeping you hostage when their job description is to protect."((a fic that puts you in the driver seat of a refined reader with an established sexual relationship with John Wick.))
Relationships: John Wick/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	Ritual in Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [layeredlikeanonion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/layeredlikeanonion/gifts).



> This fic was written for a very dear friend of mine. it's my first John Wick fic but it is unlikely to be my last.
> 
> TYPOS: i am vision impaired do not call out my typos, i worked very hard to get rid of them but i cannot make any guarantees.

It’s almost sacrificial, you think.

A woman in red, sat demurely on a penthouse bed. Locked doors. Armed guardship keeping you hostage when their job description is to protect.

They want you to be afraid, if only to feel better for their own obvious fear. You can see it in his stance; the man tasked with your safety shifts between both feet and his hand trembles around the handle of his gun. His body stiffens, a burst of static from the radio at his hip.

10PM already?

You wonder how long this will take.

A lines strung together – you don’t care to listen in until the voice is cut off, a gunshot barely heard through the receiver.

“Jacques?” he speaks frantically, his voice shaking as your guard clutches the radio too tight in his trembling fist, “come-in Jacques what is your status?”

His reply is a crackle of static; the familiar sound of a radio smashed beneath the solo of a bloody shoe. Your guard now white as a ghost, takes a step away from the door, clutching the radio close to his chest.

“What was that, the doorman?” you ask, leaning back against the plush bed spread. “He’s in the building – it won’t be long now.”

“Shut up you _bitch!”_

He moves as though to strike you; eyes wide and wild. You can see fear as deep as the color of his eyes; a twitch in his brow and a quiver in his lip telling more than you could think to ask.

You fix him with a simple stare and he stops in place, hand still raised ready to come down on you.

Fear truly is the divider of men.

“Remember what you’re here for,” you say, words like ice on your tongue.

You wonder what scares him most.

“Money runs out.”

He spits onto the carpet, a sneer marring his face. You’re tempted to ask if he thinks his life will last longer than your uncles fortune – and maybe he should have thought of that before taking such a dangerous job.

You sit up straight. Some men will do anything for enough cash, but it doesn’t hurt to lie about the risks.

He paces the room and you watch with mild interest as he flips through different channels, each coming back with a hiss of static. You see the slow shift in his expression; the mounting fear.

You’re not afraid of what’s coming – you’ve always been taught to hold our head up and this might be your last chance to show it.

“There’s still time to run,” you say, barely batting an eye as he hurls his radio against the wall. Shattered pieces rain down against the carpet, but that will be the least of the housekeepers worries. “You could always go out the window. I’m sure the fall would kill you, but at least you’ll see it coming.”

Your mouth twists up in a daring smile.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters.

He stalks over to you, tosses his handgun onto the bed beside you and leans in close enough for you to smell the liquor on his breath.

“Our partnership ends _here,”_ he pulls back, unholsters a second gun and marches toward the door. “I’ll show this asshole who he’s really messing with.”

You watch as he rips the door open, and you hear the click of the lock sealing you inside. One final defence – it’s like trying to hide from a fire; eventually you’re going to get burned.

The penthouse is large and the majority of your guard are stationed throughout. You don’t listen out for it, but as the sounds approach your room you can hear shots fired and furniture shattered – bodies tossed across rooms, stifled cries of shock or agony; the sounds of carnage you haven’t heard in years.

If not for the lock you think curiosity might get the better of you – you might want to catch a glimpse of it yourself just to satisfy a morbid urge. And if the thought weren’t so classless you might dwell on it more than just a moment. Instead you listen close as the sounds reach a sudden stop. A final gunshot. Final crash. A final body hits the ground and the penthouse is all but silent.

The air becomes thick with tension.

You can hear his footsteps heavy against the carpet. A solemn march in your direction.

The handgun lays untouched at your side.

You raise your right hand just above your face to watch the light as it catches against your ring. The handle twists, but the door remains locked. You turn our hand again as the door is struck – you admire the silver band that adorns your ring finger; a hefty garnet set into the metal, catching the light like blood. The door splinters on impact, a constant pounding against the wood to force entry, and when that final protection gives way you don’t even look up.

“Mr Wick,” you hear the familiar click of a gun. These final moments are important; you’ve always known that. “I’m afraid you’ve interrupted a rather lucrative night.”

You lower your hand, watching the flickers of red light bounce off the carpet. You look up slowly, taking in the dishevelled appearance of the man before you. His hair is a mess, minor cuts on his face and blood still wet and vibrant against the stark white of his dress shirt. The damage he wears shows his plight – the trouble he’s gone through to get to ou.

“Surely you intent to compensate for the loss you’ve caused.”

Being escorted out of a rather high-class casino by armed guards, was truly an offence on it’s own. Never mind the money you’d have made as the night wore on.

Image is everything. You’ve always been told that. Your image is the most important thing.

You wonder how your uncle will feel after tonight. Is your life worth more than the scandal? Are you worth the trouble you cause?

“Taking out my guards was a nice start,” you say. With your hands flat against the bed, you push yourself to your feet. “I’m rather expensive to protect, I’m afraid. But you should know that by now.”

He lowers his weapon as you approach. By now he knows no secondary fret lies waiting in the shadows. He’s made it this far – it’s just the two of you now.

“you won’t try to protect yourself?” he asks, eyes drifting toward the handgun left behind on the bed.

The answer splits your face into a salacious smile.

“I’d never raise a gun unless I intended to shoot,” you say it softly, the space remaining between you barely enough to warrant spoken words. You grab his wrist where it’s beginning to fall – wrap both hands around him, and bring his gun to the column of our throat.

“Are you going to shoot me, Mr Wick?” there’s not a trace of formality or fear in your tone – words almost a fare. “Come now, it’s impolite to keep a lady waiting.”

No one can say that in your last moments you flinched.

Oh but you’ve played this game before – the stakes never quite so high. You let go at the slightest resistance and he tosses his gun to the side – threads a hand in your hair as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

Even in heels you can just barely reach.

“That’s funny,” he says, voice a deep rumble you can feel against his chest. He holds your head still, looks into your eyes as thought he’d left something there the last time he had the chance. “I see no lady here.”

The laugh that leaves your mouth is barely a breath of air. This close you can feel the warmth of his body against yours; the thrum of pent up energy, adrenaline left over from his battle to reach you. If you cared to look, you’d see a trail of bodies now litter your suite. You’re never quite given all the information you need, but surely this can’t be _it._

“You won’t find what you’re looking for,” you try.

“Maybe not.”

His fingers slip from your hair, ghosting down your neck to rest there, and you lean in on your own. You have to stand on your toes to reach, but when your lips meet his it’s exactly how you remember. He never does anything by halves and even in the barest pressure of a kiss you feel the same single minded intensity he devotes to every task. A reminder of what’s to come.

He’s breaking away before you can try anything else – too familiar with you by now, and maybe he has time but not a lot of it. Still the space between you is barely enough to breath and his hands fit around your waist like he’s’ holding something precious.

“I know better than trying to get you to talk,” the words spoken against the top of your head, a moment of tenderness that contrasts the rest of the night.

You lift your head, casting your eyes up as your arms slip from around his shoulders – hands sliding down his chest.

“Hm, were you expecting to see someone else up here?” you ask, fingers working deftly at the buttons of his bloodied shirt. Your lips twist up in an almost smile – fingers brushing their first taste of exposed skin. “Clever men never let themselves be weak.”

“I’ve never thought myself particularly bright.”

And mayb e it’s a lie, but when your hands reach his belt you can already feel where his pants have grown tighter – the outline of his hard cock obvious beneath your hand. This new revelation had excitement burning across your skin – every touch the strike of a fresh match.

“You’re a mess,” you whisper, tips of your fingers wet with the mess that clings to him. You undo his belt with ease, sinking to your knees in one fluid motion. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

You’ve always enjoyed this part – with a few quick movements you’ve got a hand around him, the delicate lengths of your fingers barely able to close around him. You’ve always enjoyed the control; the stifled groans that fall from your partners mouth, the frantic thrusts against your tight grip, and the pleasant gasp when you finally seal your lips around the dripping cockhead.

With John it’s always different, and you think maybe you like that _more._ He has a hand in your hair; fingers soft but demanding. He never becomes impatient – waits and takes what you’re willing to give him.

The control is still there, just not in your hands. It’s an endless back and forth – you try to firce his hand with slow teasing strokes over his hard cock, wide eyed glances, dragging your tongue over your bottom lip; back arching as your free hand slides up your thigh and beneath the hem of your dress.

“Don’t think you can keep me distracted forever, pretty girl,” he rasps – only the slight strain in his voice shows the effect of your actions.

You bite your lip, hand stalled at the edge of your panties. The look you give is pure sin, and you know any control you might have had is gone.

“If you’ve got time to stop, you’ve got time to play.”

And neither of you have time for any of this. You think that’s why he doesn’t let you finish – doesn’t really let you start before he’s dragging you up by your hair and tossing you on to the bed. You land in a heap, your dress pooled around your hips. Against the vibrant gold of the bedspreads, the fabric clings to you red as blood. You spread our luxuriously – arms stretched above your head and back arched – as he climbs over you; spreading your legs to make room.

His hands are callous and rough against your supple thighs. There’s an edge in his eyes and yet he touches you like it isn’t there – like he could spend hours with you just like this; skin against skin, soft touches that set your body a flame. With all certainty you would crack first.

“You look good like this,” he says, leaning over you. He presses a kiss beneath your jaw and you feel the hard press of something cold against your thigh.

The sound of tearing fabric is sharp when it hits your ear. You feel the dull end of his knife first against your navel – the metal cold where everything else is much too hot. He draws you into a kiss as the blade approaches your chest. You hold your breath – maybe you should be scared, but you only feel a building heat growing between your legs as your dress is cut completely from your body.

He continues to kiss you, and you think to gain back some of that control; sinking your teeth into his lower lip and sucking it into your mouth. He presses harder against you – you feel the drag of his exposed cock against your hip, a smear of precum against your skin.

It takes a small amount of effort to wrap our legs around him. With little leverage, you know he only moves because he wants to, letting you roll him over onto his back so you can settle practically on his chest.

You let your eyes drift to the remains of your dress, strewn across the bed.

“That was my favourite,” you lie.

“I’m sure you have a dozen more just like it.”

His hands are on your hips, fingers digging beneath the waistband of your lace panties. Your body is too warm all over, but especially there between your legs. He pulls against the fabric – snaps the elastic against your skin – and you shift forward, searching for friction that isn’t there.

“You’ve ruined my evening, and now my favourite dress,” you say, voice airy. Your complaints have no weight. You’re meant to be a distraction – a getaway tactic. This is never meant to be as fun as it is, and yet just the intensity of his stare has you short of breath.

“Would you like me to make it up to you?” he asks – hands shifting to grab at your supple ass, pulling you closer.

_“Please.”_

In a quick movement you’re on your back again, legs in the air as he helps slip your panties off. There’s something wild in his eyes and he hides it with a kiss against your ankle – slipping between your legs with an indulgent smile.

“How can I be sorry when you look like this?”

You let out a pleasant sigh, enjoying the feel of his hands dragging up our thighs. His hot breath hits your navel as he lays a kiss beneath your belly button, and you think you might go crazy

“John – don’t tease.”

You don’t exactly whine, but it’s not very ladylike as the words fall off your tongue.

He presses a kiss against your inner thigh, tongue dragging up just shy of where you need him you arch your back, raising your hips just slightly trying to hurry him along.

All you get is a laugh against your skin.

Without a doubt this man is a killer. You don’t fear the edge of his knife or the end of his gun – but in moments like this you worry the weight of your passions might consume you.

It’s always like this – a spiral headed neither up nor down. You get just as lost in him as he does in you, and if he doesn’t know this already you fear the day he finds out.

He draws it out a while longer, soft touches that send shivers up your spine. His fingers press against your wet entrance, touching but never really pushing through. If the thought weren’t so abhorrent you might scream – might _beg_ for anything more than this – and maybe he can feel you at the edge of your rope; with another kiss against your navel he’s pressing two fingers into you. Your body shudders against his touch, hips lifting slightly as his thumb rubs in slow circles around your aching clit, fingers working in and out of your wet pussy.

You know better than to rush him – but as pleasure rolls over yoru body, burning down to the tips of your toes, you think it’s a good thing your family keeps their secrets tightly hidden. For one delirious moment, and not for the first time, you think you might say _anything_ to speed things along. To have him touch you the way you need it.

His breath is ragged against your skin as he presses a final kiss against your hip. And when you finally feel his mouth on you – tongue hot and wet against your already sensitive clit – you can’t help the sounds that escape your throat. A wordless plea for more, before the words can form.

You throw a leg around him, drawing him closer, and you don’t feel the slightest bit in control but he lets you hold him there as he continues to break you apart – driving his fingers inside of you while his tongue works you into a frenzy.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, body drawn tight as a bow string. Every muscle you have is aching with built up pressure and your hips are moving of their own volition; grinding feverishly towards completion. “Don’t stop,” you repeat, and it’s like a mantra, falling off your tongue with no thought until a final perfect stroke has you seeing colors against the dark of your eyelids. “Oh fuck – _John.”_

Your entire body shakes with the power of your orgasm. You feel it white hot beneath your skin – liquid fire that consumes you right down to the air in your lungs. He works you through it – doesn’t let up for a second and you feel it simmering in the pit of your stomach your entire body is thrumming with it; a desire for something more.

You spread your legs around him. Still mostly dressed, the drag of his suit is almost too much against your sensitive skin – and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on the tip of his tongue.

His mouth twists against yours; a note quite smile hides the darkness he tries to keep from you. You see it more and more – you’re not afraid, but you know he is.

“Forgotten how to behave already?” he asks, a kiss against your jaw leads to a bite against your throat. If he leaves a mark you’ll be in trouble, but you _ache_ for the feel of teeth against your skin. You feel him rock hard between your legs, the tip of his cock grinding against your over-sensitive pussy. “What were you saying about manners earlier?”

If you take pride in drawing out his human side, he’s always taken pride in bringing out yours. You know deep down you’re much more than just a whisper in wealthy circles, but John Wick is the only one who’s ever taken an interest in that side of you.

“A lady never has to ask twice,” you say, voice a hush in the space between you. A gasp parts your lips when he pushes against you; cockhead nestled against your opening. _“Please.”_

Your body is still trembling with aftershocks of your orgasm, and you almost forget how to breathe as he pushes inside of you.

This won’t last much longer – you feel his breathing harsh against you throat, teeth dragging brutally against the skin there as he begins to fuck you. Your entire body is consumed by him; his larges hands settled possessive over your hips – your thighs wrapped snug around his body as he thrusts into you _hard._

You always love this part, though hardly ever lurid enough to enjoy it fully. You feel the groans that rumble through his chest, hear the litany of praise falling from his tongue –

_“Fuck – that’s good, you’re so good for me – suck a good girl – fuck.”_

The steady drag of his thick cock inside you never lasts long before he loses himself to it; pushing into you with all his strength, chasing his own completion. For a moment neither of you are in control – he lets himself go; lets himself fall apart in your arms, and you know the only other people who get to see him unhinged and _real_ , are the people who end up dead only seconds later

What you have isn’t special. It’s business mixed with too much pleasure. Weakness exploited. Sacrificial – you’re an offering at every turn, and for anyone else you might not be thrilled. But John holds you against him like something to be treasured, even as he takes his pleasure from your worn body. For a few moments in the dim glow from the city skyline, tangled in the covers of a plush penthouse bed, you can imagine there’s more between you than just this.

If you were a romantic, your heart might ache when it comes to an end. Instead all you feel is a swell of pride as he pushes into you one last time – a groan of pure ecstasy rumbling through his chest as he exposes himself; allows himself to bed truly vulnerable in your arms.

It’s moments later when he’s come down from his high. He’s holding himself up over you – it’s over, and he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or to just say goodbye.

“Go easy on him, won’t you?” you whisper in the silence that tries to settle. You search his eyes for any trace of mercy, but find none.

**Author's Note:**

> things to note; i watched one john wick movie one time so i dont expect my characterization to be perfect. sorry if he falls a little flat  
> i also have never written heterosexual sex before, so again i apologize for any shortcomings there. i can only improve as i go forward
> 
> feel free to hit me up on tumblr @softdramahoe if you intend to roast me, otherwise the comment section is fair game


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